


specifically. strategically.

by azurejay (andchimeras)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Biting, Frottage, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), hey bandom it's been a minute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-12 21:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchimeras/pseuds/azurejay
Summary: The one where Pete bites Patrick. Not so much post-hiatus as end-of-hiatus, I guess. Summer 2012.See end notes for content notes.Eta: now with the actual final cut instead of a patchy draft. Double facepalm.





	specifically. strategically.

The knock comes around 3, because “around 3” is when they agreed Pete would come up. On his way to the door, Patrick ruffles his own hair, annoyingly nervous. He’s seen Pete a few times since he said _yes_ to writing, so this isn’t strange.

“Hey!” he says as he opens the door, faking a bright smile.

Pete smiles back. “Hey, man.” They do the grasp-hands-bump-shoulders thing, and then Patrick closes the door behind him.

There’s small talk as they move around the room, getting ready to work. Pete pulls his laptop and notebooks out of his backpack onto the coffee table; he lays his jacket on the square orange hotel couch.

“Um,” he says, gesturing to the pot of room service coffee on the desk.

“Whatever, go ahead,” Patrick says. Part of him wants to tell Pete to fuck off and use the shitty single serve packets.

Pete pours himself a cup and then sits down, one arm along the top of the cushions. Smiling, easy, relaxed; Patrick feels messy and unprepared.

He’d woken up at 1, kicked off the sheets, and pulled his laptop toward him from the unused side of the bed. While he was waiting for breakfast, he poked at the words Pete sent him last week. He moved the lines around in his own files, used his iPad to tap out some music, hummed along. He’d eaten toast with marmalade, had cream in his coffee, because maybe he didn’t feel like singing today. He has GarageBand, his headphones, his rusty voice in a dozen demos, and his acoustic guitar; that’s it.

 _We’ll see how it goes_ , he told Joe and Andy sometime last month; that’s all he could say. He told Pete, _okay send it_. And now they’re here again, not the same room as the first or subsequent times, but one just like it, after he told Pete _yeah i'll be here til thurs_. This is all he can promise.

He gets back on the unmade bed and pulls his laptop over his crossed legs while they’re talking about what Kanye’s doing with his label this year. There’s a level of professionalism he’s both never shown Pete before and is also unwilling to attempt now. He put on clean clothes after he ate.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “I was thinking for the--” and he plays a line that goes _angels choking on their halos, see how dirty i can get them, so heaven’s grief brings hell’s rain_ \--Pete is tapping his pen on his knee, and then he interrupts, “Yeah, yeah, but,” and Patrick hits _pause_.

Pete squints thoughtfully in the silence. “Yeah, but what if it was more like the, um--seeing how far you can go before you go off the cliff. How hard you can push.”

Patrick nods. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” foot already moving to a new melody, and bends closer over the keyboard, fitting words and sounds together in other ways.

A couple of hours later, all of the coffee is gone, and Pete has taken the room service menu from the stack of pointless hotel papers on the desk. Patrick pulls his headphones down around his neck and blinks.

“I kind of want pizza,” Pete says. “You’re vegan, right?”

Patrick’s stomach growls for cheese. “No,” he says. “Not today,” he adds ruefully when Pete raises his eyebrows. Pete laughs and tosses the menu aside.

“Let’s get delivery. You pick,” he says.

When the pizza comes, with two cans of Coke and one can of ginger ale, Pete puts the box on the coffee table and sits on the floor next to it. Patrick takes his slice of pepperoni and stuff back up on the bed. Probably he wants the higher ground, but also: Pete’s crap is all over the couch, the desk chair is uncomfortable, and he doesn’t want to sit on the floor. It’s fine.

With his mouth full, Pete says, “You told Joe we’re meeting up?”

Patrick shrugs and finishes chewing his last bite. “I just mentioned it. I mean, I thought Andy would’ve said something. Or you.”

Pete shakes his head. “I didn’t want him to think he had to make any decisions, since, you know.”

“Yeah.” Patrick taps his fingers on the underside of his paper plate. He wants to say he’s made his own decision, but. “I can’t--”

Pete holds his hands up, eyes wide, and says, “Dude, you don’t have to either.” Patrick exhales. “I’m having a good--this is really good for me,” Pete adds earnestly. “You don’t have to be here, and I really appreciate that you are.”

Patrick shrugs again. He looks at the floor, at the frayed knees of Pete’s jeans. He can feel his cheeks heating up and wants to tell Pete to fuck off again, tell him he’s okay being here, say that he doesn’t have anywhere else to be, laugh at the idea that he could really say _no_ to Pete for very long.

“I mean it,” Pete says, leaning over, and Patrick looks him in the eye.

“Quit it,” Patrick says. He makes himself smile while he stands up and drops his plate in the pizza box. “You’re freaking me out.”

Pete crumples his plate on top of Patrick’s and does his terrible Al Pacino impression: “Are you talking to me?” Patrick laughs reflexively, and Pete grabs his wrist and says again, barely holding in his own laughter, “ _Are you talking to me_?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to you, asshole,” Patrick says, still laughing, pulling his hand away; his wrist looked so narrow in Pete’s hand.

“I’m _freaking you out_?” Pete asks insistently, grinning, pushing closer to Patrick as he backs up toward his safe perch on the bed.

“You’re such a dick,” he laughs, boosting himself up.

Pete growls and follows him, moves into his space, playfully snaps his teeth against Patrick’s thigh. Patrick shoves at him with his foot, but Pete grabs it and Patrick pushes at his forehead, trying to keep laughing. It’s sort of like wrestling over a clean sleeping bag in the back of the van, but it’s--Patrick is grabbing for his hair and Pete bites him for real, through his sweatpants. Patrick’s hand lands sadly on his thigh, next to Pete’s face.

“Ow, what the fuck,” Patrick says. It didn’t even hurt; it doesn’t hurt at all, he was just surprised. Pete looks surprised too.

“Sorry, dude,” he says, pushing back from the bed. “Are you okay?”

Patrick sits back up, touches the damp spot on his thigh; he can’t feel it until he touches it with his fingers. He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Did you mean to. Do that?”

“What? No,” Pete says. He frowns. “Why would I bite you?”

Patrick shrugs. He shifts, away from Pete. He’s going to get up and get some water and move his laptop to the desk so he’s not sitting on the bed, and then they'll work some more. Pete puts his hand on the bed where Patrick is going; Patrick is between his arms and he frowns back at Pete. “What the fuck?”

Pete leans forward, bends close to where his mouth had been, and looks up at Patrick. “Do you want me to?”

Patrick rocks back a little bit. He catches himself before he kicks Pete in the stomach, knees him in the chin. He squeezes his hands around the edge of the bed. His hands are next to Pete’s, but they aren’t touching. Pete asked him, Pete called him, he’s here, and this is how it should be: Pete asking.

“Yeah, do it,” he says, trying to sound light, as if he casually has his oldest friends biting him on purpose all the time. Every day.

Pete smiles at him, no teeth, and puts his mouth back where it had been, just over the outside crest of Patrick's thigh. Pete bites him again, pushing closer in, getting a good grip through the fabric.

Oh, fuck; he doesn't even know how it feels, it's just--he's never minded, like, hickeys, or a little shoulder chewing; maybe he liked it more than just not minding. But this: Pete at his feet, bending over him, it's. Patrick leans back, grabs handfuls of sheets and drops his chin to his chest so he can watch. Pete lets go and glances up at him, and Patrick breathes in and out quickly and nods.

“Okay, just tell me when,” Pete says quietly, and bites him again, a few inches closer to Patrick's stomach. He lets go after a few seconds and moves on, around the outside of Patrick's thigh.

When Pete comes back up, he doesn’t look at Patrick, just bends over his other thigh. Patrick can’t imagine his sweats feel or taste great, but Pete seems determined, and that’s--. The dull, insistent pressure of Pete’s teeth is like a kick drum; Patrick is breathing so shallow and fast in counterpoint--he can’t make sense of it. Pete’s hand moves past Patrick’s arm, curving around his hip, above where he’s already been bitten, fingers just touching under his t-shirt. The contact is more shocking than what they’re already doing.

Patrick fumbles his shirt over his head and when he straightens his glasses, Pete’s doing the same, rising up to his feet. Patrick swallows, because he didn’t know what he was going to do next, he just didn’t want Pete to stop touching him, but this is okay. He pushes back on the bed, and Pete comes up after him, picks up Patrick’s laptop. Patrick turns and elbows his way up to put his glasses on the table, and Pete is behind him, reaching past him to set down his laptop. Pete’s hands are on his shoulders, his neck, his back, his ribs, his hips, _everywhere_.

“You okay?” Pete asks, out of breath.

“ _Yes_ ,” Patrick says. He grabs a pillow and doesn’t turn back around. He pulls his knees up under him and says, “Do my back.”

He feels Pete’s forehead against the back of his neck, and Pete touches the back of his right arm, gently. Pete draws his fingers up Patricks arm, folds his hand around Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick is holding a pillow, he’s fine, but Pete braces him with a knee between Patrick’s thighs and bites at the muscle over his shoulder blade, again and again. He’s sucking a little bit during each bite; Patrick knows from hickeys that there will be bruises and little pinprick burst capillaries afterwards. Pete moves his hand around Patrick’s flank, high up at the top of his ribcage, and the next bite is right at the crease of his shoulder and his arm. Pete’s breath huffing hard in and out into his armpit; Pete's teeth latched on and pulling his flesh back and forth.

Patrick leans his forehead against the vinyl headboard and shudders when the sensation coils tight enough that there's no other way for it to come out. Even yelling wouldn't help. Only a full-body twitch just takes the edge off, and then it builds again.

Pete pulls back and smooths his hand down under Patrick's shoulder, smearing his spit, his calluses running over the burning marks of his teeth.

“Okay?”

Patrick nods. His forehead is stuck to the vinyl of the headboard. The pillow he's hugging is too warm now, his chest pickling with sweat.

“Do it again.”

Pete's hand around his hip, above his sweats, firm. “Where?”

There's a damp spot where Patrick's breath has condensed on the headboard. Vinyl is actually a bit gross. “I don't fucking care, man. Just do it. Please.”

Pete’s right hand moves up his flank, and then his left drags across his back. Patrick can feel him inhale and exhale just before his teeth sink in, over his ribs; Patrick breathes in and out too, quickly, panting as Pete works his flesh back and forth. He’s not biting deep, but firmly, and the slow grinding motion of his teeth is tortuous.

The tension in Patrick’s neck and shoulders pressing his forehead against the headboard collapses from him, and his face is in the condensation from his breath. His mouth is open, and his teeth touch the vinyl; he bites at it, out of some instinct, like he’s trying to fight back; he doesn’t want to fight back. The vinyl tastes plasticky and like bleach and is upholstered too tightly for him to get hold. A noise breaks from him, he feels a hot tear spilling over his cheek.

Pete lets go and presses his hand to the bite, again. He leans into Patrick, his side against Patrick’s back. Patrick has to let go of the pillow and brace himself, or they’ll both fall over, and he’s not done. If Pete’s not done, he’s not done.

He can hear Pete breathing wetly, and then feel him, dragging his tongue along the bite mark for a moment. Pete clears his throat.

“Where?” he whispers.

Patrick lets out a short laugh, quietly. What can he even say to that? If _I don’t care_ isn’t clear enough, what can he even say? _Anywhere, everywhere, everywhere_. “Just. Don’t--fucking--stop.”

Pete makes a desperate noise and puts an arm around him and pulls him back, away from the headboard, pulling both of them down the bed, until Patrick is on his belly. His feet are uncomfortably warm under the rumpled sheets, but his tired arms and neck can finally go lax. His thighs are burning as Pete lays on top of him, dick hard against him, nose in his neck. Pete opens his mouth, just past where a t-shirt collar might fall if it was loose. Just where a guitar strap might rub, might burn when Patrick swings his guitar behind and then back in front of himself.

Patrick digs his fingers into the sheets. He presses back against Pete.

This bite is not shallow or slow. It doesn’t even have a chance to burn. Patrick bucks up, shouting a surprised, “Fuck!” and Pete comes up with him, one arm around his chest again, until Patrick goes back down to his elbows. He’s chanting, “Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck--” feeling the sheet under his face getting wet with tears and sweat, both soaking fast back towards his ear, up into his hair, down to meet the spit pool under his mouth. Pete’s breaths through his nose are hot against Patrick’s neck and face.

Pete’s fingers press into his ribs where he’s holding on to him around his chest, against another bite mark, his other hand squeezing Patrick's hip. The pressure of the bite lets up, but his tongue rubs at the skin, and then he sucks, and it’s going to be not just a bruise, not a hickey, but a thin-skinned welt. It's good. Pete drags his tongue across it; Patrick can feel the shape of each tooth mark as Pete's tongue touches them.

Pete tucks his hand under Patrick’s hip, and Patrick nods. “Yeah,” he says, “go ahead. I want you to.”

Pete sighs and sags into him. He slides his hand into Patrick’s sweats, cupping his half-hard cock in a loose, careful, sweaty grip as he starts slowly thrusting against Patrick’s thighs and ass.

Patrick pushes his hand under his cheek, wiping tears and sweat away. Pete's chest is rubbing along his back, dragging his bitten skin back and forth, Pete's arm is squeezing him. Patrick bumps his hips up into Pete's, and Pete groans, moves to Patrick's other shoulder. He snips and snaps stinging little bites down his shoulder blade and back up, and doesn't stop as they make a rhythm between them--their hands grasping, their backs and chests, their hips and thighs, their legs moving together.

Pete pulls his hand away from Patrick's dick to brace himself. Patrick hisses, “Fucking seriously?” and Pete laughs, panting a little. Patrick goes up on his elbows and wraps his hand around Pete's wrist. He presses his nails in sharply, just enough to maybe leave a mark for a while after--maybe for a few hours.

“Jesus, fuck,” Pete gasps, and bites Patrick's other shoulder for real, like he wants a _piece _of him. He digs his teeth in and Patrick arches sharply up into the pain, letting out a short cry.__

____

____

Just like that, they're fucking in earnest, sweat slick everywhere and their breath harsh. Patrick's still not really hard, but his dick moving freely against his sweats and the friction of Pete moving against his ass is rough enough to feel fucking amazing. He feels like Pete is dragging him back and forth by his shoulder, shaking him like prey, like he's been caught. 

“Yeah,” he says, his hands clenching and releasing, in the sheets, in Pete's skin. “Do it, do it, fucking come on.” Like he's been caught and he'll be kept. 

Pete finally lets go of Patrick’s shoulder, gasping, and presses his face into Patrick’s hair. He shudders; his hips push against Patrick’s almost too hard, a few times, and then in short jerks, steadily drawing down to stillness. Pressing them back down to the bed. 

Patrick blinks at the white sheets, the strange view he’s got of the bedside table, his phone and his watch, the blood orange honeycomb wallpaper. His hand around Pete's. He closes his eyes again and wishes he could just fall asleep. Even with Pete, sighing, slumped over him. Patrick can feel Pete’s heart thumping, slowing. 

Pete shifts over, half off of him. His back and side are cold, his hand is cold, until Pete pulls the weird scratchy hotel blanket over them, one thigh across Patrick’s. He reaches over and draws Patrick's hand in close, under the covers 

Pete's arm is heavy on his shoulders, pressing the bite marks into him warmly. Patrick is trying to drift, pushing back the stern and panicking voices both, keeping his eyes closed. Pete’s rough cheek is on his upper arm. Pete is probably staring at him, mouth red, eyebrows pinched. 

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut hard. He doesn’t want anything else to happen. He doesn’t want either of them to say anything. 

His nose is itchy. He sighs, annoyed, and rubs it against the sheets. 

Pete laughs and he sounds--relieved. “Okay?” 

Patrick shrugs, and realizes how good it feels to have Pete’s weight on him. He’s here; all of him is here. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m okay.” 

Pete squeezes him, a very little bit, like he’s fragile. It makes Patrick want to stiffen and draw away, no matter how good this is, but Pete presses his mouth to the tender skin just above Patrick’s elbow. Patrick tenses, is about to say _no_ , because it will show, but it’s not a bite. Pete kisses Patrick’s arm and says, “I’m okay too. Everything is okay.” 

Patrick opens his eyes and the bed is soft, the lamplight and the wallpaper are like a late fiery sunset. Pete’s eyes are golden and dark, like tiger's eye. They are touching, not pushed or pressed together. Held by their weight against each other. Patrick lets one corner of his mouth quirk up; maybe they’ll be okay. Pete smiles back. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [nayyirah waheed](http://aabbiidd.tumblr.com/post/167697255831/may-love-find-you-even-when-you-are). Beta by dangercupcake.
> 
> Content notes: consensual but not explicitly negotiated; crying as a reaction to pain; masochism; only one of the characters gets off and that's okay; there is NO broken skin or blood.


End file.
